Strong
by catcanwrite
Summary: At just eight years old, Clary is taken under the wing of one of the most infamous criminal figures in America: Camille Belcourt. There were so many 'twisted Jace' fics, that I decided to go for a 'twisted Clary'. AU. OOC. Clace.
1. The Beginning

**The Beginning. **

Clarissa smiled down at the Barbie doll, detangling its hair with her tiny fingers. She'd always loved the beautiful dolls, but Mummy wouldn't let her buy them. She had said that they were plastic devils who were sent from hell to turn young girls into sluts and whores. Clarissa didn't know what a slut or a whore was, only that her Mummy liked to use those words a lot. Sometimes the words were directed at Clarissa, but mostly they were used at other people. Once or twice Daddy had called Mommy a whore, but only when he was angry at her. Clarissa didn't mind too much when Daddy got mad at Mommy, but sometimes he'd be mad at her too and it was very scary. "That's the other good thing about modesty," Mummy had once told her, whilst she was helping her pull a shirt over her bruised arms. "It keeps all your secrets." Being modest wasn't very much fun, though. It meant being too hot to play every summer, having to watch in jealousy as all the girls in their shorts and skirts played in the sun. Not that she was taken outside very much these days.

She heard the apartment door open, and quickly shoved the doll down the side of her bed. Daddy never came in to check on her, but Mummy would, and if Clarissa was caught with the Barbie doll she would have to be punished. Not only were dolls not allowed in the house, but they might guess where she'd gotten it from, and stealing was even more sinful than Barbies. The Bible said so.

If her Daddy wanted to punish her, he'd just hit her. She knew that lots of Daddies spanked their children, but she wished it didn't hurt so much, and didn't leave bruises in so many places. But if Mommy caught her, the punishment would be worse. Once Mommy had run a bath with water so hot that it made Clarissa cry. She'd had to get in with her clothes still on, while Mommy read from the Bible. Mommy loved her Bible, but Clarissa didn't like it much. The words were long and there were no pictures.

But then there was some yelling, and Clarissa realised that whoever came into the house was definitely not Mommy. She was happy. That meant she could keep playing. She frowned. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do with the Barbie next. If she had any other toys, she could make up a game, but she didn't. She could do what she'd done with the last three- scalp her and rip her head off. But that was getting boring.

Clarissa was startled by a loud bang. It sounded like the fireworks on the 4th of July were going off, only it was much closer.

A little nervously, she opened her door to investigate. Before she knew it, a gun was being pointed at her chest. She only knew what a gun was because of the games she'd seen boys play in the park. But they only played with their fingers. This wasn't the same thing.

"Oh jeez," the man holding the gun groaned. He smelt funny and had a bit of an accent. Clarissa thought it might have been English, but she wasn't sure. "Luke! There's a kid."

A much taller man came to join him. He was hairier, but definitely looked cleaner. He walked strange too, one leg dragging slightly after the other. "Jesus Fucking Christ," he muttered.

Clarissa had heard a lot about Jesus, but she'd never heard his middle name before. These men didn't look too religious either. In fact, they looked like people her parents would hate.

"Where's my Daddy?" She asked. The men looked at each other uncomfortably.

"Are you Jocelyn and Valentine's daughter?"

"Yes. Did you kill Daddy?"

The men seemed too shocked to speak. Clarissa hoped they didn't feel too bad.

"It's okay, I don't mind. He wasn't very nice," she told them.

The man holding the gun gaped at her. "What the fuck? What's wrong with you?"

"Mike! She's just a little kid. You don't need to keep that gun in her face."

Mike looked sheepish. "Right. Sorry," he apologised, lowering the gun. "Look, kid, is your mother home?"

"No, she's confessing her sins to the priest so Jesus will let her go to heaven. Why? Do you need to kill her too?"

"Fucking unbelievable," muttered Mike.

Luke crouched down, looking at her kindly. "Is Mommy not very nice either?" He asked. She shook her head. "What's your name?"

"Clarissa Adele Morgenstern."

"That's a long name. Do you have a nickname?"

A nickname. She'd heard of those. "I don't know. Do you?"

"If you'd call it that. My real name's Lucian Garroway, but everyone calls me Luke. Michael Jonathan Wayland over there's always called Mike."

"Jesus, Luke," Mike snapped. "Why don't you just tell her our addresses as well?"

Luke rolled his eyes. "What are you worried about? That this six year old's gonna be the one to take us down?"

"I'm eight," she corrected indignantly.

"Of course you are," Luke smiled. "I should have realised." Clarissa liked Luke, she decided.

"Can you give me a nickname?" She asked.

"What about Red?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, not about my hair."

Mike rolled his eyes. "This is ridiculous."

"Okay. What about…Clary?" Luke suggested.

Hmmm. "Clary." She tested it out. She liked the way it sounded. "That's good."

"Great. Now we know what we're calling her, may I ask what the fuck we're gonna do with her?" Mike demanded. The word 'fuck' kept coming up. It was a very angry word, but she kind of liked it.

"We'll have to take her with us," Luke decided after a few moments thought.

"What?" Mike gasped. "We're just… what?"

"Well, we already know that Jocelyn and Valentine have no contact with their family. So what, are we gonna drop her off at the police? Knowing what she knows? What choice do we have?"

Mike sighed. "Fine. Kid, when does your mom come home?"

"She'll be here soon. I thought you were her when I heard you come in. Can I see my Daddy?"

Luke looked stunned. "I- no, sweetheart. You don't need to see that."

Clary didn't understand why, but she didn't want to make them angry at her. If they decided they didn't like her they might decide leave her behind.

She could hear the front door opening again. "She's here." Clary told them.

Luke motioned for her to shush, and then whispered something in Mike's ear. Mike nodded and shoved Clary back into her bedroom, closing the door behind them both.

"What did he say to you?" Clary asked him.

"He just wanted me to bring you back in here so you wouldn't have to see your darling Mommy get shot in the head, or have to watch any of the cleaning up." Mike looked down at her, with a mixture of confusion and amusement. "Not that you would have cared, right? You don't care at all that your parents are dead- or, will be anyway- do you?"

Clary shrugged. "I told you, they aren't nice."

Mike laughed. "I've seen a few battered kids in my day, love, but none who'd learnt to hate their parents so young. Good on you, is what I say." He took out a cigarette, along with a lighter. Clary had never seen a cigarette lighter in real life, and watched the flame in fascination. Somewhere in the house, another gunshot was fired.

"Can I make some fire?" She asked.

"I'm not gonna let you burn this building down, kid. Sorry."

Clary sighed dramatically and started rummaging behind her bed for the doll. The plastic expression stared back up at her.

"Won't you get into trouble?

"From who? The police?" He chuckled. "Nah, we're gonna make it look like they helped knock each other off. They're pretty well known religious nuts- no offence- and the police will just assume that it's something to do with that."

Mike was very different to Luke, but Clarissa liked that too. He didn't act like she was just a dumb kid. He spoke to her like she was a grown up.

"Okay, we're done," Luke popped his head in after a few minutes.

"Where exactly are we taking her?" Mike asked.

Luke shrugged. "To Camille, I guess."

_Camille. _The name sounded beautiful. It reminded Clary of a picture of the French seaside she'd seen once on a postcard.

"If she hates it, I'm blaming you," Mike said grimly.

The car ride had been a long one. Longer than expected. Clary wished she'd remembered to use the bathroom before leaving, but she didn't want to annoy them. Occasionally Luke would make small talk from the driver's seat, but mostly he seemed deep in thought. Mike stayed silent the whole ride, except to ask if they could go through the McDonald's drive through. Clary had never had McDonald's before. It didn't taste like real food, but Clary liked it anyway.

Finally, they stopped off at a cluster of apartment buildings.

"Listen," Luke said to her as he helped her out of the car. "Camille has the tendency to be quite…temperamental."

"What does that word mean?" Clary asked.

"It means she might get angry sometimes. The important thing is not to cry. She hates crying."

"_I _never cry," Clary insisted. But she held on tighter to her Barbie doll for comfort.

The lobby of the building they entered was quite plain, but very clean. Other than the three, there was nobody in sight.

They got into an elevator, and Mike pressed a button. Clary gasped. "She lives all the way at the _top_?"

Luke grinned. "All the way at the top."

The elevator doors opened and Clary's eyes opened wide. The entire floor had been turned into a single apartment. All over the walls were tapestries, portraits, and pictures, so many that you could barely see the colour of the walls underneath. The carpet was white and fluffy, and there were little multi-coloured rugs thrown everywhere. There was no apparent colour scheme in the apartment; the furniture, the walls, the drapes and the rugs all clashed in a way that was somehow beautiful.

"Mr Garroway, Mr Wayland," a female voice drawled from another room. "If you wouldn't mind stepping into the study for a moment."

The study was an extreme contrast from the rest of the place. The bare walls were an ugly shade of green, and there was a bookshelf that went right up to the ceiling. The single desk in the room was organised impeccably, not a paper out of place. But the woman standing behind it was what Clary couldn't stop staring at. She was tall, taller than Luke even, and had blonde hair that went right down to her waist. Her skin was as pale as Clary's, although while Clary's looked sickly, hers looked radiant. Although they were indoors, she wore dark sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat that looked like something out of the nineteen fifties. Her white dress hugged her curves tightly. Clary had always been lead to believe that women who showed off their figures were stupid and in need of attention, but this woman didn't look like she needed anybody. Over her dress she wore a coat that matched the carpet in the rest of the apartment, and she wore a different coloured ring on every finger.

"Miss Belcourt," Mike looked like he was going to bow, but then apparently thought better of it. "Mr and Mrs Morgenstern have been disposed of."

"Wonderful." The woman who must have been Camille smiled. Even with her glasses covering half her face, Clary could see how the smile lit up her face. Suddenly, she seemed to notice an added presence. "Who's this?" Camille asked, taking her sunglasses off and squinting at Clary. Her eyes were a striking green.

"This is their daughter, Camille," Luke explained. "We didn't know what you wanted with her, so we took her with us."

"It was his idea," Mike quickly informed her.

"How odd," Camille murmured. "Why had I never been notified that they had a daughter?"

Luke shrugged, Mike looked petrified.

"Tell me, girl," Camille spoke to her directly now. Her voice was as sweet as honey. "Why have I never heard of you?"

"I- I don't know, ma'am." She'd never called anyone ma'am before, but it felt right.

"Do you not go to school? Or go on outings?" She pressed.

"I'm home-schooled, by my Mummy," Clary explained. "Mummy and Daddy don't like me leaving the house much. I used to go shopping with Mommy, but she doesn't let me anymore. All I do is play in the apartment building. But only two other kids my age live there, and one of them is a boy."

Camille smirked. "Quite. Even so, I absolutely cannot believe that this has slipped our knowledge. This is unacceptable. Luke, you will find who made the error and have them dealt with." Luke nodded. "You two can go. Leave the child with me."

They nodded, never looking her directly in the eyes. Clary could see they were both scared of her, Mike more so than Luke. She didn't know why. Camille was lovely.

"What is your name?" Camille asked.

"Clary. Well, it used to be Clarissa Adele, but it's Clary now."

"I like Clary much better," Camille reassured her. "Did Luke and Mike frighten you?"

"No. Mike was a bit scary with the gun, but that wasn't for long. I wasn't sad that Mommy and Daddy died. They were bad. Even though I was supposed to love them, I knew they were bad. They hurt me and they didn't buy me toys."

"That's very perceptive of you," Camille didn't sound particularly shocked or pitying. She sounded impressed. "To realise that your parents were bad. But if they didn't buy you toys, what's that in your hand?"

"I sometimes took them from the girl upstairs," Clary admitted. "Even though stealing is a sin, I didn't think it would matter because she had so many toys and I didn't have even one."

Camille stepped out from behind her desk to close the distance between them. Clary could see that that most of her height came from her high heels. "How did you manage that?"

"Mostly I'd take them from her backpack when she was coming back from school. She'd put it down for a second and I'd wait and snatch it. Then she stopped putting toys in her bag so I had to go to her home. I told her Mommy and Daddy that I was from school and I needed to drop off something for English, and I took this from her room."

"Did you feel guilty?" Camille asked.

"No," Clary said honestly. "I didn't." She stared up at the woman who towered over her. "Why didn't I?"

"I'll tell you why, Clary dearest," Camille, realising ridiculous height difference, kicked her shoes off dismissively. "Because you aren't weak and apologetic like everybody else. You're strong. Just like me."

_Strong. _Clary liked that. After years of being told that she was heartless, evil, damaged by the devil, this was finally a word that fit.

"Clary, darling, I do not like children. I find them whiny, stupid, and insufferable. But you aren't that way at all, are you?"

Clary shook her head, nervous, but excited.

"Like I said, I dislike children. But for years, I have dreamt of having a protégé."

"What's a protégé?" Clary asked.

"Darling, consider expanding your vocabulary. A protégé is someone to teach, somebody to take under your wing, as it were." Clary could hardly breathe. "I would be honoured, if you would allow me, to take you in as my daughter and protégé."

"Yes! Yes, of course!" Clary didn't know how to agree hard enough.

"Excellent, darling," Camille beamed. She swept Clary into a giant hug, lifting her slightly off the ground. It was the first hug she'd had in years. Clary held her tight, breathing in her floral perfume. It didn't last too long, however, before Camille put her down and frowned. "Oh, no, this is going to make me even busier than usual. I need to call my friends in the police force and make sure they aren't quite as thorough in the missing person's investigation. And I'll need someone watching the news, of course. And then I'll need to get you some clothes that make you resemble a little girl, rather than a potato sack. No offence, love, but religious parents make the most _awful _clothing choices-."

Camille kept up this babble for ages. Clary liked listening to it. She could probably listen to her speak for hours, but at ten thirty seven, Camille insisted she go to sleep. Although there were many other bedrooms in her household, Clary asked if she could sleep on the big couches outside the elevator. Camille seemed amused, but agreed. There she lay awake, until she was positive that Camille wasn't going to emerge. It was then she slipped out of her covers, careful not to make a sound.

She tip toed out to one of the fire escapes, and took Mike's lighter out of her pocket. A slow smile spread over her face. All that practice with the dolls had turned her into an excellent thief. Holding up her Barbie to the sky, she set the very tip of its hair on fire, watching in fascination as the fire consumed the whole body. She watched the orange and yellow flames dance in fascination. Not even Camille Belcourt could look more beautiful than this, she decided. Not even Camille.

**_A/N: So! Um, what did you think? This was a bit of an experimental upload, I just had this idea that I couldn't shake and decided to give it a bash. If you like, please review and let me know you want me to continue, because I'm not a hundred percent sure about this one._**

_**I know some this might seem confusing, but don't worry, explanations will be coming if I continue.**_

**_The next chapter will be a fair few years into the future, so this'll be the last you see of young Clary. Fortunately, teenage Clary's equally, if not more, entertaining. _**


	2. The Beginning of the Middle

Clary watched as the flames chased each other around the fireplace, the midnight blues and the vibrant oranges dazzling her eyes. There was something so inexplicably beautiful about fire. It warmed her insides as much as it did her exterior.

There was a knock on the door. "Miss Fairchild?" Clary frowned. Her name of the month. When she'd first been taken in, it was very clear that she could not keep the name Morgenstern. Although everything had been done to minimise the attention paid to the missing child, the Morgenstern suicides had become a very popular new story. And Camille had insisted that she could not adopt the surname Belcourt.

"Sorry, darling," she had drawled. "But my name's a one of a kind. And plus, Belcourt is a dangerous surname in these parts. It's all for the best."

The problem was, Clary had never been able to decide on a last name that fit. Every one she'd tried had just left her with an icky feeling. So she'd just pick one every so often and keep it until she got bored. Sure, it was probably confusing, but who was going to argue with Camille Belcourt's daughter? No one who wanted to keep their brains safe in their skulls.

"Who is it?" Clary asked. Never open a door to anyone, Camille had taught her, without knowing precisely who's on the other side. Even if you think you're safe, you never were. That was the most important lesson for life with Camille.

"It's Simon, miss," the voice said. Clary grinned. Of all the bodyguards she had, Simon was her favourite. Although, she thought as she opened the door to him, she didn't know how he got the gig, since he was hardly the most physically intimidating guy out there. He was short and kind of skinny, and constantly looked anxious about something. Apparently he was an expert in some kind of Israeli martial art, but Clary had yet to see any of his skills put into practice.

"Are you here with a purpose? Or were you just hoping to catch me off guard so I'd have no choice but to fall victim to your powers of seduction?" She asked him innocently, enjoying watching him squirm under her gaze. She knew he had a crush on her, and she had absolutely no intention of letting him do anything about it. But it was fun to toy with people's feelings.

"Cam- Ms. Belcourt wants you to come to the penthouse. She's organised a driver for us both."

The penthouse. That was strange. A few months after Clary had first come to Camille, her new 'mother' had a kind of an epiphany.

"A family home!" She'd exclaimed one day over breakfast. "No child should be raised in a penthouse with disgusting men crawling around every day of the week. A proper _house _is what you and I need."

It had taken a few years to get built- Camille refused to settle for anything but the best- but finally it was completed. Four stories tall, it had everything either of them ever wanted, right down to the fireplace in Clary's bedroom. It was an hour's drive away from the penthouse, and was kind of in the middle of nowhere. But, as Camille pointed out to her, why did location matter when everyone and everything you could ever ask for could be brought to you in the blink of an eye?

So now the penthouse was only used for Camille's 'business meetings'. It was funny, the details of the business had once seemed so fascinating to Clary. Now they just bored her.

"Why does she need me to go there?" Clary wondered out loud. "Why can't she just call me, or wait until tonight to tell me?"

Simon shrugged. "With all due respect, miss, your mother isn't really one to confide in the bodyguards."

Clary sighed impatiently. "Very well," she said, not bothering to extinguish the fire on her way out. "To the penthouse we go."

* * *

><p>"So Simon," Clary said conversationally, finally growing tired of the forty minute long silence that had been present throughout the entire car ride. "How's the family?"<p>

"Well, Rebecca's having a baby," Simon said proudly. He seemed like the sort of guy who'd take the role of being an uncle way to seriously. Probably annoy his poor sister to death in the process.

"That's lovely. And your mother?"

Simon looked uncomfortable. Clary knew he would. "Every bit as rude and intolerant as last time, miss."

Clary rolled her eyes. She had expected a more entertaining reaction.

"Driver, what about you?"

"My name's Jordan Kyle, miss," he said sullenly. "I introduced myself to you before."

Drivers that talked back were _so _annoying. "Sure. Anything going on with you?"

"I just got engaged. That's my fiancée there," he indicated a photo of a striking, dark skinned girl that was taped onto his dashboard.

"She's beautiful." Clary noted, more out of confusion than politeness. Jordan didn't seem like the type who could land someone as hot as the woman in the photo. Not because he was ugly, because he wasn't, but he had some kind of weird vibe about him that made her feel uneasy.

Jordan didn't seem to notice her bemusement. "Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me? I didn't call you beautiful," Clary driver was beginning to get on her nerves.

He seemed taken aback. "I- what?"

"Do you think she's beautiful?" She wanted to know.

"Well, I don't think I'd be marrying her if I thought she was a dog," Jordan responded.

Ugh. "How romantic."

Jordan either didn't hear her or ignored the comment. "We're here, Miss Fairchild."

* * *

><p>Clary hadn't been at Camille's apartment in years. She recalled the first time she had seen the place, back when she was young and innocent. But she'd never been completely innocent, really. Camille had seen how messed up she was from the moment she stepped into her office. That's why they got along so well, they both had just the right amount of insanity in them.<p>

The penthouse was much barer than when she had first seen it. Most of the furniture and ornaments now belonged in their mansion. But somehow the apartment had managed to maintain its chaotic beauty, its sense of organized mess.

There was a fat white man sitting on the couch, the one remaining piece of furniture in the living rom. He had dozed off, drool running down face and onto his grey tuxedo jacket. Clary recalled that first night when she had slept on that couch, and instantly resented him for doing the same.

"Excuse me, would you mind telling me who the fuck you are?" Clary demanded, startling him out of his slumber.

"Um, you must be Clary," he said, rushing hastily to his feet, his pale face growing red.

"Yes. Now answer the question."

"Clary, baby," Camille swept in from the study. Even in jeans and a pale pink sweater, she still managed to look the very picture of glamour and sophistication. "I hope Hodge didn't startle you," she said, kissing her on both cheeks.

"He didn't," she said. "Please tell me you aren't sleeping with him. He's revolting."

Hodge started spluttering whilst Camille laughed huskily. "Don't be stupid," she chastised. "No, Hodge is here for you."

"I'm really hoping this isn't an arranged marriage type thing. Because I really think I could do better on my own."

"You are funny," Camille said fondly. "I've always liked how funny you are. But this is serious. Clary, your birthday's in three weeks."

"I know that."

"And who were you planning on spending the day with?"

"You."

Camille rolled her eyes. "_Besides _me, darling."

"I don't know. I was thinking of seeing Emma during the day and then getting dinner with Sebastian at night."

"There," Camille said triumphantly. "I knew it."

Um. "Knew what exactly?"

"Clary. Darling. It is highly uncommon for an almost sixteen year old to be best friends with a preteen and a man in his mid-twenties," Camille said sternly. She sounded oddly parental for a change. Although Clary thought of Camille as her mother, she'd never been one of those real parental types. "You don't have any friends your age. That's surely unhealthy. Isn't that right, Hodge?"

Hodge looked way out of his depth. "Um. Yes."

"People my age just piss me off. In fact, most people just piss me off. I get along with Emma because she idolises me, and I like Seb because he's almost as fucked up as I am. And then there's you and Luke, but you know I love you guys. And that's all I need. Oh," I added, remembering he was standing behind me, "and Simon's okay, but he doesn't count because you pay him to spend time with me."

"But remember Clary," Hodge said gently. "Your negative perception on people your age may be due to your lack of exposure to them. Remember, you haven't even been in a school since you were eight."

"Yes I have. I went for a month when I was thirteen." One day, on one of her whims, Camille had decided that Clary simply had to go back to school. Although it had been fun seeing everyone's reactions to the six foot eight bodyguard she brought along, Clary had found her fellow students to be some of the most excessively boring people she had ever encountered. "And my fellow students were the most vapid, unintelligent cretins I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. So I stopped."

"I see," Hodge muttered. "And you say you home-schooled her, Ms. Belcourt?"

"That is correct," Camille said, the smoke from her cigarette spiralling around her.

Well that was a joke. From the very beginning, all Clary had asked for in the way of education were a set of books and an internet connection. She'd basically been her own teacher since the age of eight, if you didn't count Camille's irregular vocabulary lessons (_"Oh god, darling, that word makes you sound horrifically unrefined. Go look it up in the thesaurus and say something that doesn't make you sound like a moron.") _But this Hodge character clearly knew a thing or two about child development, and Camille was obviously being careful not to make herself seem like a bad parent.

"Baby, the problem with normal school," Camille spoke to her, "is that there are no children like you. Granted, there aren't many children like you anywhere, but in the American private school system all you're left with are the children of irrelevant game show hosts and dull philanthropists. There's no one there who's created what I've created, who's accomplished what I've accomplished."

Clary knew how proud Camille was of her business. And she didn't blame her. You could preach about the illegalities and immorality of it for hours, but you couldn't deny it was fucking brilliant.

"You'll have to remind me, Clary, have you ever met Robert or Maryse Lightwood?"

"I met Robert at one of your parties once. He was unbearable."

Camille giggled. "He is, isn't he? But he is an associate of mine, as is his wife. And I think you'll find his wife is much more pleasant company. She has her head screwed on right, anyway, which is more than anyone can say for darling Robert. I greatly value their loyalty and devotion to me. And although I may not _like _Robert, per se, I respect and trust him and Maryse deeply. That's why I am confident that they've managed to instil the correct values in their three children. Values that get so often overlooked. Their children have been taught cunning, hard work, and, most importantly, loyalty. And Hodge, as their tutor, has been an enormous hand in that."

I could see where she was getting at, and I didn't like it. "You're going to get Hodge to tutor me with them."

"You seem unhappy," Camille observed, sounding disappointed.

"I just don't understand why it's necessary. I'm basically a genius anyway. And the last thing I want is to hang around with more loser ganster's children. Emma's the only one I've ever met who I could tolerate."

"Oh darling, no one's questioning your intellect."

"And the Lightwoods are great kids," Hodge chimed in. "Alec's seventeen, and Jace and Isabelle are both sixteen."

Clary glared at him. "Throwing some random ages at me is doing literally nothing to endear them to me."

"Mr Starkweather, Simon, could you give us a moment?" Camille asked, although they clearly weren't being given an option.

"Oh, um, of course," Hodge muttered, stepping with Simon back into the elevator. Clary wondered if they planned on going back down to the lobby or just hanging out in there until they got summoned back in.

"Baby," Camille said softly, putting one hand on Clary's shoulder. "Ever since you came to me, I've tried to teach you everything I know. And you've done so well. But you cannot charm. Making people fear you is good, but it will only get you so far if they do not like or respect you at all. You need to learn to network if you want to make it in this Family."

Clary rolled her eyes. As pissed off as she was about the idea, she couldn't come up with a good enough reason to dispute it. "Fine. I'll do it."

Camille took Clary's hands in hers. "Darling. You make me so proud."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: So, we've met teenage Clary! What do we think? I've got some really awesome things planned for the next couple of chapters, so look forward to that. Reviews are always appreciated. Love ya bye xx**_


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